


On the Willows

by abrae



Series: In the Fullness of Time [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:56:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2956586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrae/pseuds/abrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows the moment he sees Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Willows

**October, 2037**

  
She's asked to meet him at the old flat, Sherlock's since ownership of 221 Baker Street passed into his hands twelve years ago. Mary's key still works, but that's the only thing that seems the same, the corridor she steps into lacking the warmth of companionship it once held. No light spills from the glass of Mrs. Hudson's door, the only sound that of her own feet as she walks over threadbare carpet to the stairs. 

Mary enters 221B to find Sherlock seated in his old armchair; he looks up as she enters, and in that instant she knows he's seen everything. Sherlock gives a small, nearly inaudible gasp and begins to rise, but she waves him off and crosses to sit in John's chair, a quiet companion to Sherlock's even after all these years. The air between them is tense until Sherlock breaks the silence. 

"Does John know?"

Mary shakes her head and, after a moment, a fat tear drops to her lap. Sherlock starts, then hesitantly leans forward to take her cold hands in his own. He reaches up to brush another tear from her thin cheek; she gives his hand a small squeeze, then lets out a sob.

Sherlock tries to speak, but the words seem to stick in his throat; so instead he gently cups the back of her head with his hand and pulls her close, leaning his forehead against her own to cross this bridge together. The autumnal afternoon sun casts a banked glow over the room; it warms Mary by increments, until she's able to pull away with an audible sniff. She wipes her nose with the side of her hand; with a gently exaggerated roll of his eyes, Sherlock twists around to take the tissue box behind him, pulls out the first two or three, then hands her a clean tissue kept safe below the first few layers of dust.

She quiets under his watchful eyes, and he says into the silence, "I never wanted this to happen."

Mary nods. "I know. You... " She gives a small shake of her head, not wanting to shine a light on that thing they never discuss. "I know."

"Have you told Anna?" Sherlock asks, and Mary gives a tired little laugh.

"Not yet, but she'll know when she sees me. I'm having coffee with her tomorrow afternoon. If I tell them together... "

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock agrees. Then he sighs.

"Perhaps Mycroft...?"

Mary shrugs.

"It might be worth a try," she says, the faintest thread of hope running through her words. "But... it's advanced, Sherlock. I didn't even know - I didn't even know." Bottled frustration rushes through her; Mary slams her hand on the arm of the chair and cries, "Why didn't I _know_?"

She stands abruptly and goes to the window, staring through the yellowed lace curtains with her arms wrapped tight around her small frame. She's stubborn and always has been, but this - it's as though she's already lost a war she hadn't known she was fighting. Mary wants to believe she can beat it, but above all she's a pragmatist. She heard the resignation lurking in her doctor's words as soon as he spoke of treatment, and there's a part of her that just wants to wave a white flag and make the most the time she has left. But she knows John would never go for it, that she owes him and Anna a fight to the finish, so she turns towards Sherlock with a shrug and a nod. He pulls out his phone and quietly dictates a text to his brother in the least antagonistic terms Mary's ever heard between them.

When he's pocketed it again, Mary looks away. One breath, two, each deeper than the last, until she's worked up the courage to say, "You'll have to look after him, Sherlock." 

She turns back to find him standing by his chair, his expression shuttered. Mary can read him, though - in the way his eyes slide to the side, the way his hands knead the worn leather and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

And his words - "He loves _you_ " - are a gentle confirmation of what she's always known. Mary crosses to Sherlock and reaches out her hand to rest it on his arm. Her eyes follow her fingers as they stroke the fine wool of his suit jacket.

"If you let him," Mary says softly, eyes downturned and a quivering smile on her lips, "he'll love you, too."

She looks up to find Sherlock's eyes wide - bright and red-rimmed.

"I didn't want this for you. I didn't _want_ this," he says, his childlike insistence belying his age. He radiates the frustration of a thousand thwarted ideas, helpless in the face of her wretched mortality. Wordlessly, Mary steps close to Sherlock, tucking her greying head under his chin as he slowly enfolds her in his embrace.

"I know," she whispers, tightening her arms around him. "Neither did I."


End file.
